Zion's Fiction: A Treasury of Israeli Speculative Literature

Introduction

Sheldon Teitelbaum and Emanuel Lottem

The State of Israel may be regarded as the quintessential science fiction (SF) nation—the only country on the planet inspired by not one, but two seminal works of wonder: the Hebrew Bible and Zionist ideologue Theodor Herzl’s early-twentieth-century utopian novel Altneuland (Old New Land).

Only seventy years old, the Jewish state cranks out futuristic inventions with boundless aplomb: wondrous science-fictional products such as bio-embeddable Pill-Cams, wearable electronic diving gills, hummingbird spy drones, vat-grown chicken breasts, microcopter radiation detectors, texting fruit trees, billion-dollar computer and smartphone apps like Waze and Viber, and last but not least, those supermarket marvels, the cherry tomato and the seedless watermelon.

What Israel has yet to generate—and in this it stands virtually alone among the world’s developed nations—is an authoritative volume, in any language, of Israeli speculative fiction.¹ Zion’s Fiction: A Treasury of Israeli Speculative Literature is intended to remedy this oversight. The book will pry open the lid on a tiny, neglected, and seldom-viewed wellspring of Israeli literature, one we hope to be forgiven for referring to as Zi-fi.

Zi-fi: We define this term as the speculative literature written by citizens and permanent residents of Israel—Jewish, Arab, or otherwise, whether living in Israel proper or abroad, writing in Hebrew, Arabic, English, Russian, or any other language spoken in the Holy Land.

In the main, however, this volume spotlights a small but growing pool of Israeli writers who have pursued deliberate vocations as purveyors of homegrown Hebrew-, English-, and Russian-language science fiction and fantasy (SF/F), and other brands of speculative fiction, aimed at both the local and international markets.

We showcase here a wide selection of stories whose authors range across the entire gamut of the modern Israeli SF/F scene: men and women, young and not-so-young, Israel-born and immigrants, professional writers as well as amateurs; some continuing to live in Israel and some expatriates. More than a few have already published stories overseas; for others this is their first foray into the international arena. Many are part and parcel of Israel’s SF/F fandom (more about which, see below); others are mainstream writers who at some point in their careers decided to use SF/F tropes as the best vehicles for their message and their whimsy. All of them, however, share one thing in common: by adopting the tropes of speculative fiction, they have all bucked, if not kicked in the teeth, a deeply rooted, widely held, and long-standing cultural aversion, shared by a preponderance of Israeli readers, writers, critics, and scholars, to most manifestations of indigenously produced as well as imported speculative fiction—science fiction, fantasy, and horror.² It is the underlying contradiction between the aforementioned science-fictional roots and this primal aversion that, we believe, renders the very publication of this book a wondrous event.

Author Hagar Yanai lamented in a 2002 essay in the daily Haaretz that Faeries do not dance under our swaying palm trees, there are no fire-breathing dragons in the cave of Machpela [the Cave of the Patriarchs], and Harry Potter doesn’t live in Kfar Sava. Local fantasy is so weak, she declared, that an original series like the Harry Potter books couldn’t be published in the state of the Jews.³

Hence a paradox: In a nation whose very existence was inspired by an SF/F vision, SF/F was until recently completely beyond the pale, and even now most cultural luminaries shun it. This despite the fact, pointed out by scholar Danielle Gurevitch, that in early Jewish tradition, fantasy literature … [involving] marvelous acts, magic, and miracles aimed at hastening the Redemption, as well as a rich diversity of unbelievable stories of journeys to the Holy Land … was a driving force in the nation’s history and thinking.⁴

Scholar Adam Rovner reminds us that whatever value they place on imagination, and however much they may have stigmatized some forms of fantasy, all nations and countries become the incarnations of fabulous stories told by their inhabitants or their invaders. This was certainly true of England, for instance, which took its cue from Arthurian legends, and it is also true of the early incarnations of the biblical Jewish homeland, which derived inspiration from the Book of Joshua. Zionist historiography and literary history, says Rovner, have long demonstrated the intimate bond between what is now alliterated as nation and narrative.⁵

On the other hand, in present-day Israel, as during the nation’s prestatehood years, willingness to open the door to weird strangers and unusual occurrences that benefit nothing but the spirit of whimsy is minimal, says author Gail Hareven.⁶

How come? Where did this allergic response to imaginative fiction come from?

Several explanations have been offered. One is the simple importation of the aversion to SF/F from abroad. After all, we must admit that for many a year, Western culture had regarded SF/F with mild condescension, to say the very least. Until quite recently it was not culturally accepted as High Literature: fit for teenage boys (not girls!), lacking in veritable literary qualities, ignoring the exigencies of ordinary life, or worst of all, escapist—choose or add your favorite condemnation—for which alleged faults it has not historically passed universal muster. It was (and often continues to be) ghettoized, relegated to special-interest shelves in bookstores and libraries. This attitude was carried forward to and prevailed in prestatehood Israel, thoroughly unmodified. Furthermore, since cultural influences tended to spread rather slowly to and through the Jewish state, it has persisted well after the attitudes towards SF/F in the United States and the United Kingdom, for instance, became more congenial.

Yet another explanation hinges on the unusual contempt normative Judaism held even for its own nondidactic and lighter-hearted forms of literature. The Hebrew word for imagination, dimion, did not appear in this sense in the Hebrew language until the twelfth century, in Maimonides’s Guide to the Perplexed, despite the fact that seminal biblical and postbiblical Jewish texts often resorted quite freely to narrative embellishment. Frequently they crossed over into outright fantasy, either to fill in gaps in the original Torah narrative or to resolve textual contradictions.

Such imaginative works included Midrashim (exegetic tales); Meshalim (parables and fables); Aggadot (rabbinical legends); and medieval apocalyptic literature, including hagiography, Ma’asei Merkavah (mystical theories of creation), or apocryphal and pseudepigraphical Heikhalot texts describing heavenly journeys, such as the maqama—rhymed prose narrative—by Abraham Ibn Ezra (twelfth century), Hai ben Mekitz, about a journey to the six planets of the medieval solar system and their imaginary inhabitants. The sages nevertheless dismissed this massive corpus as mere stories and profane matter.

It is possible, of course, that outright faith even in the most outlandish events trumped whimsy, obviating any acknowledgment of the fantastic. Magic and sorcery, despite the miraculous deeds of Moses, Elijah, and other biblical figures, were and continue to be considered off-limits by most observant Jews. Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live, commands the Bible (Exodus 22:18).

While admitting the existence of grains of truth in both these explanations, we would prefer to emphasize the inherent tension between having a dream and actually living it. Forging a semblance of Herzl’s Altneuland vision in a long-ravaged ancestral homeland very nearly forced the nascent Jewish republic, by dint of human cost alone, to deplete its imaginative reserves. If you will it, the latter-day prophet (depicted on the cover of his book in his role as space-bound SF/F writer cum ideologue) famously declared of his proposed Jewish state, it is no fairy-tale.⁷

The publicistic intent implicit in Herzl’s choice of classical late-nineteenth-century science-fictional romance as a vehicle for proposing the Zionist enterprise to the masses, however, probably added an inconvenient literary fillip to the nation-building effort—one that, although inherently fanciful, regarded unfettered imagination as anathema. The very idea that Israel might have been inspired by a science fiction novel would have rankled. Consequently, Altneuland was deliberately misconstrued by Zionist ideologues as sui generis.

Creating a nuts-and-bolts nation, whether or not inspired by a literary fantasy, called on resources of faith of a much more practical nature. This task proved totally consuming, utterly grueling, costly in blood as well as resources, and fraught with calamity. Implementing the Zionist project left little capacity and even less taste for imaginatively unfettered ventures, whatever their pedigree. An avowedly pragmatic lot, the Zionists remained painfully wary of pie-in-the-sky schemes and stars-in-your-eyes stories.

The Zionist enterprise, moreover, was from the outset an all-out effort: each individual was expected to make his or her contribution to the fulfillment of the joint dream to the utmost of their abilities, regardless of personal cost, desire, ideal, or proclivity. It was a dream of a new nation, a rightful member of the world community, living in peace and harmony with its neighbors; of a new, just, vibrant society, where everyone has equal rights and duties and works for the common good; of a newly revived language, Hebrew, used for any and all purposes, lofty or mundane, to replace the various languages spoken by Jews in the Diaspora; and of a new person, the sabra: an independent, strong-willed, prickly, hard-working, idealistic individual, the diametric opposite of the downtrodden Diaspora Jew. Epitomized in the character of Uri, the hero in Moshe Shamir’s 1947 novel (later a play, then a movie) He Walked through the Fields, and depicted in numerous other stories, poems, novels, plays, and films, this idealized new breed of Jew became perhaps the greatest hope and ultimate achievement of Zionism.⁸

There was no room in this scheme for freeloaders, including people who wished to write about imaginary worlds or predicaments. They had no moral right to pursue their idiosyncratic leanings; what they should write about must relate directly to the building of the new nation. Criticizing its faults in their stories was allowed, even encouraged; extolling it was still more welcome. Divert from these options, and no one would publish or indeed read your work.

Furthermore, the leadership of the highly politicized Yishuv, the Jewish community in prestate Mandatory Palestine, had become, since the turn of the twentieth century, increasingly socialist in orientation. By the late 1920s the political domination of the labor movement was nearly complete. The significance of this in the present context lies in the fact that both socialism and Zionism put a great emphasis on the role of intellectuals in the shaping of a new society—with a new culture and a new kind of people—and the combination of these two ideologies tended to make this emphasis even stronger.

Well before the Jewish state came into being, therefore, Israeli writers were expected to render the outlandish fantasy of a Jewish homeland in starkly mimetic, or naturalistic, literary terms. This is an activity commonly referred to by fantasy and science-fiction writers (that is, when they don’t avoid it as a tiresome cliché) as worldbuilding.⁹ Yet this necessity, paradoxically, required stripping a then-fifty-year-old body of Hebrew literature of its artificial biblicism, its romantic strivings, its unduly nostalgic, unrealistic, idealized concerns and tropes. These characteristics, some argued, had rendered nineteenth-century Hebrew literature dangerously escapist. To counter this tendency, ideology demanded that writers, poets, and other artists depict the Zionist mission—as unlikely and fraught an undertaking as the Exodus from Egypt—with all the grit and realism they could muster.

Ideological control was rather exacting, even though few would say it aloud. The Yishuv had always been a democratic polity, and theoretically any artist, poet, author, or thinker enjoyed complete freedom of expression. Yet social pressures were overwhelming: it was the intellectuals’ sacred duty to inspire and be inspired by the common venture, enrich and if so inclined criticize it, and above all imbue the younger generation with the values, attitudes, and aspirations of their elders. Deviation from this role was frowned upon, sometimes fiercely, and on a more practical level, those not inclined to hew to such strictures could hardly find the means (for instance, a publishing house) of reaching out to the general public. Institutional publishers with telling names like Am Oved (A Working People) or Sifriyat Po’alim (Laborers’ Library) had very clear agendas. But even private-sector, bourgeois publishers regarded themselves as part and parcel of the Zionist enterprise.

Thus developed a cohort of gatekeepers that effectively controlled the Yishuv’s cultural output: publishers, literary magazines’ and journals’ editors, literary critics, professors of literature, and so on. This small but highly influential group had a final say over what the public could read, and steeped as they were in ideology, Zionist-socialist or just Zionist, their say was practically final.

Needless to say, aversion to speculative literature was but one of the gatekeepers’ endearing qualities; in fact, it was quite a marginal facet of their overall control, since they had very few cases to contend with in that sphere. Much more than that, they were the keepers of ideological and moral purity.¹⁰ Consider the case of Dr. Yaacov Winshel (1891–1980), a well-known physician who also dabbled in writing. In 1946 he authored a novella, The Last Jew, which offered up one of the first postwar alternative history scenarios postulating a Nazi victory in World War II—a forerunner of what would become a distinguished SF subgenre. Winshel was able to find only a minor publisher for this work, which was simply ignored by the Yishuv’s literati. Ironically, the reason for this cold shoulder had little to do with the novella’s literary quality, nor even its genre affiliation. Alas, Winshel was a prominent member of the Revisionist movement, a disciple of its leader, Ze’ev Jabotinsky. The Revisionists were Labor Zionists’ mortal enemies (sometimes literally so); therefore, Winshel’s writings remained firmly outré.

Although susceptible to a secular messianism that promised redemption through national renewal, the Labor Zionists in those days turned their backs on the mystical, supernatural aspects of the Hebrew Bible. They had no use for miracle-ridden Hassidic lore. Yet they also despised outright the supposedly more rational Judaism professed by the Mithnagdim, the fervently religious but excessively dogmatic opponents of Hassidism. They believed that religiosity in all its guises had helped instill and perpetuate Jewish rootlessness, passivity, frailty, hyper-intellectuality, dependence, and helplessness, brought to its horrific culmination in the Holocaust. Instead, the founders focused on geographical, historical, and archaeological accounts of a continuous Jewish presence in the Holy Land that could, they believed, ultimately be validated by empirical means.

Not surprisingly, speculative literature—what the rest of the world commonly referred to as fantasy, science fiction, and horror—did not have any kind of place in the world of Hebrew-language belles lettres, or even in what counted as popular literature. Certainly, some Israelis read commercial fiction in translation or in the original language of publication, and this may have included some SF/F. But indigenously produced genre fiction, mainly in the form of the particularly low-rent, originally Yiddish, offshoot of pulp fiction called shundt, trash, held no possible relevance to the ongoing effort of building up the nation and consolidating its gains—or to the attempt to accrete a vibrant Hebrew corpus of literature. Consequently, it found neither reputable publishers nor widespread readership.

According to Hebrew University sociologist Nachman Ben-Yehuda, an expert on social deviancy, Israel’s cultural commissars designated science fiction as a particularly egregious example of cultural inauthenticity.¹¹ Apparently unaware that Herzl had modeled his utopian novel Altneuland on Theodor Hertzka’s utopian work Freiland, while seeking to emulate the success of American protosocialist Edward Bellamy’s 1888 bestseller Looking Backward: 2000–1887—a genre classic of no uncertain stature—they regarded SF/F as a childish distraction.

Ironically, some of these very same people had championed the wholesale importation of Russian, particularly Soviet, literary forms and tropes that had informed their evolution as revolutionaries. The more left-wing ideologues among the Yishuv’s literary gatekeepers saw a parallel between Labor Zionism’s nation-building enterprise and the supposed success of the efforts to create a Workers’ Paradise in the USSR.

These proclivities extended as well to the types of books selected for translation into Hebrew. To be sure, publishers were expected to import, translate, and publish works from the accepted Western literary canon. Otherwise, they published books that ostentatiously reflected the supposedly uplifting, revolutionary spirit of the times in the Soviet Union (yet another form of wild fantasy, in retrospect) or the perceived decadence of its adversaries. In a publisher’s note added as a postscript to the Hebrew translation of Allen Drury’s Advise and Consent, for instance, the publishers (the aforementioned Sifriyat Po’alim) felt duty-bound to explain to their readers—this as late as 1960—that the author purported reassuringly to show us the triumph of the spiritual-moral strength of the spokesmen for that great nation [the United States], but truthfully, he gave us reason for much anxiety. It turns out that even the honest and decent ones among them are consumed by hatred [of the Soviet Union], and so on.

Meanwhile, light entertainment and easy diversions were left largely to the aforementioned shundt, to the cinema, to the communal campfire, to sing-alongs, and, much later, to television. Indeed, TV serves as perhaps the best example of Israeli cultural gatekeepers in rearguard action. Until as late as 1966, it was simply banned in Israel, because Prime Minister David Ben-Gurion feared that it would distract children’s minds, so that instead of studying and expanding their knowledge, they would be captivated by vulgar entertainment.¹² And even after TV had been introduced (well after the Old Man had left office), for twenty more years the country had just two channels, both under government control. The transition to the current situation, with numerous public as well as commercial channels, cable, satellite, and, ultimately, streaming venues, was motivated by the same forces—to be discussed below—that have made Israeli literature much more variegated.

Once the State of Israel came into being in 1948, writers of the younger generation—the so-called Dor haMedina, or Statehood Generation—should have been able, one might have thought, to reverse the trend. After all, the Zionist dream was fulfilled: there was a Jewish state in place, so perhaps the time had come for its intellectuals, specifically writers and poets, to let loose their imaginations. The ground was ready, one might have concluded, for a poststate literary scene more enamored of fancy. Alas, the kind of fabulation these men and women engaged in proved quite unlike any genre of speculative literature the world has ever seen.

For with each passing year, the normalcy Israel so desperately yearned for proved ever beyond its grasp. The country emerged from its formative War of Independence without recognized borders. Palestinian and other Arab opponents vowed to rectify what they termed the Nakba, or catastrophic defeat, with future rounds of warfare—as many as it would take to rid the region of its nonnative Jews. Similarly, the Israelis awaited Round Two (and then Round Three, and Four, and …), which they hoped would end with more tenable borders replacing the unsustainable cease-fire lines of 1949.

The more uncertain the country’s prospects, the more its storytellers strove to enshrine the boring, mundane, quotidian realities that eluded them—thus the wholesale appropriation of a peculiar literary genre governed by Eastern European conventions of social, political, and psychological realism. The fact that in Israel such conditions could rarely be found outside of isolated pockets dissuaded few.

Early Israeli literature therefore, author and scholar Elana Gomel and others have observed, restricted itself to desultory ruminations over the narrower aspects of kibbutz life; to bourgeois melodramas set in Tel Aviv; to depictions of the dire predicaments of nearly destitute Sephardic and Mizrahi immigrants dispatched to peripheral regions; to often self-serving reminiscences of the prestate underground; to the then still shame-inducing Holocaust, encapsulated by the biblical expression as lambs to the slaughter (this attitude would change, drastically, only during the Eichmann trial in 1961); to the exigencies of army life; and, infrequently, to various romanticized aspects of daily life.¹³

Our generation’s Israeli literature, argued author and critic Ioram Melcer, adheres to the framework of Israeli reality, and barely exceeds it. Israeli time, Israeli man, Israeli sociology, Israeli problematics, the ideological partition in Israel—or in other words, the Israeli existence and essence—are the main referential framework of the greater part of Hebrew Literature written in Israel. The template set, realism itself, as Gomel comments, was slated to become a particularly Israeli form of fantasy, one that would become more inventively inward-looking and self-reflective (often to the point of ignominious narcissism) with each passing decade.¹⁴

All this should not be misconstrued, we must stress, as a reflection on the quality of the literary output achieved by these writers, poets, and playwrights or their predecessors. Authors such as Moshe Shamir, Yizhar Smilansky, Hanoch Bartov, Nathan Shaham, and Aharon Meged, and poets such as Avraham Shlonsky and Nathan Alterman, alongside others, many others, have produced literary masterpieces while working within the constraints mentioned above. Still, there is no denying they were constrained in ways their successors are not.

In Structural Fabulation, scholar Robert Scholes defined his subject matter as the fictional exploration of human situations made perceptible by the implications of recent science.¹⁵ Israeli fiction, by contrast, imagined a Jewish commonwealth made perceptible by degrees of normalcy that cannot properly exist or endure under the conditions extant in the Middle East. Israeli literature celebrated the banal, often ignoring or downplaying those local and regional circumstances that threatened most strivings toward routine, everyday existence with implosion or worse. With apologies to Scholes, we might call this perhaps unique subgenre Fabulistic Realism.

The story so far can be recast in terms of a particular and problematic concept central to speculative fiction since its very inception: Utopia. Israel, argued sociologist Baruch Kimmerling, was [however briefly—Eds.] considered the only successful materialization of utopia in the world. As such, notes Gomel, Israel represents a horizon of expectations, a vision of perfection against which the muddle of actual history inevitably appears as a mere transitional and fleeting stage.… Israel exists in the same generic continuum of other post-apocalyptic and post-utopian texts. Denizens of the Jewish homeland have been seeking physical, psychic, or digital respite from the unrelenting hostility endured over the course of the last one hundred years (the catchphrase often used by Israelis in this context is a villa in the jungle). Israelis, writes cultural observer Diana Pinto, now think of themselves as living in [their] own cyberspace at the very heart of a globalized world, [their] postmodern future being built on scientific innovation.¹⁶

Social scientists Dan Horowitz and Moshe Lissak believe that these trends and inclinations augur big trouble for little Israel’s utopia.¹⁷ The country, they argue, is overburdened and overwhelmed by competing voices, centers of power, and belief systems. It is also caught in a wind tunnel, wherein echoes of perennial arguments imply more internal Sturm und Drang than the stabilizing effects of existing institutional, cultural, and political checks and balances can damp out.

A continuum that, as per all utopias, can never achieve its stated goals poses special existential difficulties. The whole point of reinhabiting the ancient Jewish homeland was to avoid the Territorialist approach that would have rendered East Africa, Argentina, or upper New York State refuges for stateless Jews.¹⁸ The Land of Israel, in whole or in part, was not incidental to this process of repatriation. It was essential.

* * *

Israeli readers have distinguished themselves as among the most voracious anywhere. But for them, experimentalism, egotism, and whimsy, which they had disdained before the establishment of the state in 1948, remained a non-starter afterwards. The self-appointed literary gatekeepers remained in place and continued to rule the roost as before. There was still no tolerance for cultural (never mind personal) deviancy. There could certainly be no room for apocalyptic musings, especially since these were not the stuff of fantasy but of hard-core reality, and therefore intolerably discomfiting. As SF/F author Larry Niven once said, I don’t know how to frighten Israelis. Under such circumstances, notes Hareven, Franz Kafka himself never would have forged the literary career he chose had he fulfilled his dream and settled in the Land of Israel.¹⁹

As for importation, there were a few notable exceptions; some scientific romances by H. G. Wells, Jules Verne, Edgar Allan Poe, Arthur Conan Doyle, H. Rider Haggard, and Edgar Rice Burroughs did slip past the watchtowers (most of them directly to the bookshelves dedicated to young readers), as did some works by mainstream authors, such as Orwell’s 1984 or Huxley’s Brave New World, as well as short stories by André Maurois, on the strength of those writers’ reputations. But commercial literature, popular fiction, and dime-novel subgenres remained, for ardent Zionists, unfit for serious people bent on building a nation.

How, then, do we get from all this to a solid compendium of Israeli speculative fiction? Like so many things big, shiny, and, to skeptical Israeli eyes, somewhat preposterous, SF/F initially came from America. It arrived first in the guise of 1950s B-movies and then in a quirky trickle of Hebrew translations that often bankrupted their overly optimistic purveyors. A trio of short-lived magazines published during the late 1950s and early 1960s met the same end.

At the time, even translated modern SF novels were few and far between, appearing almost exclusively in the Hebrew version of shundt called roman za’ir (tiny novel)—in other words, pulp literature. Original works were unheard of, and fantasy existed only on children’s bookshelves. Asimov? Clarke? Heinlein? Not a chance. Science fiction was so rare that no one even knew quite what to call it. Israeli fans would spend a generation arguing the respective merits of mada bidioni (fictional science) and mada dimioni (imaginary science). The former ultimately gained the wider currency (although some continue to argue against it).

In the early sixties, one of the editors (E. L.) fell upon a Hebrew translation (in pulp format) by the late Amos Geffen of Robert Heinlein’s The Puppet Masters. Fascinated, he started looking for more of its ilk, but to little avail. It was only when he went to London in 1970 for his graduate studies that he discovered the wealth of modern SF/F. The realization that all one needed to do in order to get the kind of books one liked was to go ’round the corner to the nearest W. H. Smith’s proved a life-changing revelation.

The only putatively Israeli SF to emerge during that period came from the pen of Mordecai Roshwald. This Polish-born writer and academic, who lived in Mandatory Palestine/Israel from 1933 to 1955, published his apocalyptic opuses, the hair-raising nuclear war-themed Level 7 (1959) and the satirical A Small Armageddon (1962), in the United States and England, respectively. These generally well received novels, written abroad and not directly reflective of his Israeli experiences, have yet to be translated into Hebrew.

Two Israelis who ultimately defied these strictures by experimenting with science fiction—poet and filmmaker David Avidan and prose writer Yizhak Oren—consequently found themselves marginalized and were only posthumously granted critical reconsideration.

The sea change would come, however, during the mid-1970s. Between mid-1967 and late 1973, Israel fought three major wars, not to mention numerous border clashes with terrorists and cross-border Israeli retaliatory raids. The Six-Day War in June 1967 filled most Israelis with arrogant pride, not to say hubris, and fueled no dearth of messianic illusions. To many, the Zionist dream was realized in full during those six short days—not coincidentally, some would say, the same amount of time it took God to create the universe. Conceivably, the time had come to stride forward. Having become a regional superpower, Israel could now afford to normalize its society, economy, and culture.

This too proved an outright and dangerous fantasy, as demonstrated by the gruesome War of Attrition of 1968–70, followed by the near-disastrous Yom Kippur War of October 1973. Israel’s superpower illusions lay shattered. More importantly, the traditional hegemony had clearly failed its faithful adherents, not to mention the country as a whole. Even the military, the consensual symbol of social cohesion, national unity, pride, and sense of mission, had failed to deliver on all its promises. Authority was now up for grabs.

The immediate consequences were political. In 1977 the Labor Party, which had long held the helm of the Yishuv and then the State of Israel, lost the general elections. But fracture lines spread much farther than the political arena. The national economy changed, evincing occasionally dizzying levels of growth and an increase in conspicuous consumerism. The electoral demise of the Labor Party led to a shift from socialist to liberal economics and, though lifting the economic prospects of many, to a growing inequality in income distribution. A once cohesive Israeli society broke down into competing tribes (as, for instance, left-wing idealists, right-wing nationalists, Orthodox settlers, Ultra-Orthodox Jews, freebooting liberals, and Israeli Arabs of various religious and political persuasions. Most of them, needless to add, are further split among themselves). Education, too, became more fragmented and commoditized. Culture, ever both the reflection and the harbinger of social change, followed suit.

Traditional hegemony in culture, as in politics, rapidly lost ground. Diktats from above about what was proper in literature, the stage, music, and the visual arts were losing their authority. Weeds began to proliferate in the cracks. Political satire, for example, hitherto moderate and well behaved, now became vicious. The stage was thus set for a more widespread appearance of SF/F in Israel, first of all in translation (a corps of native writers was yet to emerge). But from the mid-1970s on, mainstream Israeli publishers infused bookstores with some several hundred fairly expensive translations of commonly accepted genre standards.

At the same time, mainstream Israeli literature was changing apace. Until then, under constant ideological and geopolitical duress such as Israel’s, those Israeli writers who found themselves stifled by traditional notions of Hebrewness, and sought respite in globalization and multiculturalism, remained stifled. But now, as literary scholar Rachel S. Harris observes, despite their manifold cultural origins and varying geographic orientations, the cohort of writers that emerged from the 1970s on and began publishing at the start of the following decade sought to redefine Zionism and to create a new, more inclusive Israeliness under the aegis of so-called Post-Zionism.²⁰

Later on, having gained access to the Internet, some of these newcomers showed themselves eager to transact with the rest of the planet on their individual terms.²¹ Along the way they also appear to have successfully wedged open Hebrew literature, once the sole domain of European Jews, almost exclusively male. It now extends entry to women with feminist and nonfeminist, secular or religious worldviews and to non-Ashkenazi writers functioning in Hebrew, English, and other languages.

In the process, they have also opened forums and markets and afforded legitimacy to religious Jews often averse to secular literature; to Hebrew-speaking-and-writing Arabs; to Russian-speaking Jews and non-Jews, and to people with a variety of sexual orientations. Soon they will give voice—if voice is still to be given rather than wrested—to the ingathering masses of French immigrants and to other skittish European-Jewish communities considering egress from an increasingly anti-Semitic Europe. More recently, we have seen the first glimmerings of writing by authors of Ethiopian descent.

Most important, from the perspective of this book, not a few among these writers have taken up commercial genres and subgenres, including detective stories, erotica, police procedurals and techno-thrillers, science fiction, fantasy, and even horror, with an aplomb that would have been unthinkable a mere generation ago. Some of them, in fact, have become extraordinarily adept at genre skipping, segueing from the detective format to science fiction to magical realism with a fluidity once inexpressible in Israel.

This has unnerved many among the older-generation Israeli literati. Writers, readers, publishers, critics, scholars all seemed increasingly prone to motion sickness. Ultimately, however, Israeli literature spared itself the fate of terminal navel-gazing and self-delusion under the lingering influence of earlier generations of literary critics. This impulse, though, endures to the present day and accounts for the existence and grudging acceptability of some limited forms of indigenous speculative fiction—the kind that, like Orwell’s 1984 or Burgess’s A Clockwork Orange, addressed recognizable social and political concerns head-on. As Israel’s late president Shimon Peres intoned to an international writers’ conference in Jerusalem in 2008, Israeli writers were latter-day prophets whose job was to admonish the nation. We like to be rebuked, observes Hareven, and we especially like to envision ourselves as people of conscience who want to be rebuked.²²

Rebuked, but not duped.

With the floodgates breached and the watchtowers shaking on their foundations, the gatekeepers were rapidly losing their power (faint vestiges of which, due to flailing attempts to maintain some modicum of relevancy, still reverberate within the Israeli cultural landscape). The road to SF/F lay open.

First, starting in 1975–76, came two series of translated SF hosted by mainstream publishers: Massada’s was edited by journalist, translator, and later publisher Amos Geffen; Am Oved’s, by journalist and translator Dorit Landes with—for a short time—poet-businessman-lawyer-scholar Ori Bernstein. The White Series (so called for its earlier covers), now edited by Landes alone, became and remains a mainstay of Israeli SF/F.

Other major publishers soon joined in, notably Keter, whose series was originally edited by philosophy professor Adi Zemach, and Zmora-Bitan, which was the first to include modern fantasy as well (most notably Tolkien’s). A few more publishers, while not launching dedicated SF/F series, still saw fit to include some genre titles in their lists of translated fiction.

A handful of magazines accompanied this boom, the most notable and enduring of which, Fantasia 2000, ran to forty-four issues, from 1978 to the end of 1984. Organized fandom, usually considered integral to the development of a viable SF/F scene, would not come into existence until the mid-1990s. Individual readership, however, was another matter.

Under the stewardship of editors Aharon and Zippi Hauptman and Eli Tene (and with modest assistance from both editors of Zion’s Fiction), Fantasia 2000 replicated many of the didactic hothouse functions of its American counterparts such as Astounding and The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction. It did so while surpassing those pulp digests in production values and approximating those of the large-circulation magazine Omni.

A glossy monthly with a subscription base of two thousand, plus peak newsstand sales of about three thousand, Fantasia launched a vigorous letters column, book and film reviews, a popular science department, author interviews and profiles, and, most significantly, the first glimmerings of homegrown SF/F. In a country of only 3.6 million at the time, it approached the typical per capita subscription base of its American, certainly its British, counterparts—no mean feat for a niche publication, otherwise ranked the second most expensive on Israeli newsstands at the time.

Fantasia 2000 took on, consciously and conscientiously, the task of cultivating local talent. The results were mixed. Not a few prospective writers sought to emulate American and British magazine SF/F, producing anodyne stories with clunky plots and nondescript characters. Very little about these offerings could be construed as particularly Israeli, or even Jewish, except by dint of authorship. But there were some standouts. In 1980, short story writer David Melamed published Tsavo’a beCorundy (A hyena in Corundy), an accomplished collection featuring several stories first published in Fantasia 2000. But the book received little critical recognition, leading Melamed ultimately to flee the genre. Hillel Damron, a filmmaker for the Histadrut, the national trade union, published the novel-length version of his memorable short story Milhemet haMinim (The war of the sexes) in 1982. Shortly after, Damron immigrated to the United States, where he self-published several mainstream novels in English.

Other notable Fantasia 2000 alumni included geneticist Ram Mo’av, Ruth Blumert, Yivsam Azgad, Ortsion Bartana, and Mordechai Sasson. Sasson’s story, The Stern-Gerlach Mice (1984), featured in this anthology, is a typical example of the original stories published in Fantasia. Editor Aharon Hauptman pursued a career as a futurist and is currently a senior researcher in the Unit for Technology and Society Foresight at Tel Aviv University. Gabi Peleg, Fantasia 2000’s last editor, went on to computer programming. Illustrator Avi Katz, who had joined Fantasia early on, later contributed covers to HaMemad haAsiri of the Israeli Society for Science Fiction and Fantasy (ISSF&F, on which see below) and to the Jerusalem Report, and still later provided art for this anthology.

Despite the emergence of a nascent fan scene, and the staging of the country’s first SF/F convention in 1981, the bloom fell off the boom in 1982. That was when the June War with Lebanon helped sink an already strapped international convention in Jerusalem. Subsequently, the Israeli economy plunged into hyperinflation. (For example, the newsstand price of issue no. 33 of Fantasia 2000 (July 1982) was 37 shekels; issue no. 44 (August 1984) cost 750 shekels. In terms of purchasing power, these sums were roughly equivalent). In 1984, Fantasia ceased publication, having lost a major part of its readership.

The next attempt at a commercial SF/F magazine, Halomot beAspamia (Pipe-dreams in Spain, the place where castles are built, according to both Hebrew and English idiom), would begin publishing original Hebrew fiction in 2002 under the aegis of Nir Yaniv and Vered Tochterman. That effort, too, folded in 2008, to be revived in early 2016 as a web-based publication. An English-language fanzine, CyberCozen, published in English since 1988 by a fan club based in the town of Rehovoth, can be found online.²³ Israel’s first SF-oriented website was created by Yaniv for the Israeli Society for Science Fiction and Fantasy in 1996.

The boom and bust cycle of Israeli SF/F faithfully reflected the vicissitudes of the Israeli economy (itself often subject to the vagaries of intermittent military crises). This view was taken by sociologist Nachman Ben-Yehuda, who attributed downswings to lingering ideological rejection by the wider culture of pluralism and its suspicion of individuated social subcultures. The cultural gatekeepers had lost much of their power, but they still held some of the keys to publication, controlling as they did the editorial boards of major publishing houses and various influential, if little read, literary magazines.

This went on until the mid-1990s, when the Internet hastened the ultimate fragmentation of the Israeli cultural matrix. As scholar Oren Soffer observes, its advent, and especially the penetration by cable and satellite television, resulted in a proliferation of global or, more specifically, American influences. These factors have been blamed by observers for a decrease in social cohesion and the reinforcement of (sub)group identity and individualism. These, Soffer says, appear to be part of the social and cultural processes linked to the decline of national solidarity and, alternately, to the reinforcement of individual trends and consumer culture.²⁴ Decentralization is still going on, helped by the diminished ability of the nation-state to supervise and control media messages.

Not surprisingly, Israel’s remaining cultural gatekeepers now found themselves with their backs against the wall. Although still intent on setting and patrolling the border between canonical and pop literature, they simply no longer had a single point of entry over which to stand guard. The walls themselves had become permeable, leading to a gradual yet unavoidable fragmentation of national identity. Realism, says Elana Gomel, is now the Israeli fantasy.²⁵

The social margins, as cultural commentator Stuart Hall argues, had paradoxically become highly charged and increasingly powerful places, especially insofar as the arts and social life are concerned.²⁶ Not surprisingly, science fiction fandom, which combines the two, suddenly began to flourish in Israel.

A more robust fan scene started emerging during the mid-1990s. In 1996, Hauptman, editor and translator Amos Geffen, and others joined the prolific translator (and Zion’s Fiction coeditor) Emanuel Lottem in founding the ISSF&F. Within the next few years several narrower special-interest groups took to the fore as well, including Starbase 972 (catering to the Israeli Star Trek fan contingent) and the Sunnydale Embassy (Buffy the Vampire Slayer fandom). Both are now moribund. The Israeli Tolkien Community, the Israeli Society for Role-Playing Games, and AMAI, the Israeli Manga and Anime Society, all currently active (the last despite the oddly expressed displeasure of the Israel Defense Forces, which for a time refused to recruit its members), have shown greater staying power.

The ISSF&F, among its other achievements, has regularly staged several annual conventions, notably ICon, Olamot (Worlds), Me’orot (Lights), and Bidion (Fiction), some as collaborative events with one or more of the groups mentioned above. Its major thrust at international recognition within world fandom was to have been ArmageddonCon, intended to usher in the new millennium at Har Megiddo, known worldwide as Armageddon (on the correct date, namely midnight on December 31, 2000); alas, it had to be canceled because of the outbreak of the second armed Palestinian uprising, or Intifada.

Like other